Chapter 10: Reply Letter

Jia Cong returned to the East Courtyard and encountered a servant waiting by the grain storehouse, who told him to go to Rongguo Mansion to receive a guest.

Entering the Songxuan Hall, used for receiving guests beside Rongqing Hall, he saw a middle-aged man seated in the main seat: pale-faced with a black beard, humble and gentle, dressed in a brown-yellow Shu brocade everyday robe.

The servant called him Second Master; Jia Cong knew this was Jia Zheng, Jia Baoyu’s father and the second son of the Jia family matriarch.

In his past life, while reading Dream of the Red Chamber, Jia Cong had felt some fondness for Jia Zheng: though somewhat pedantic, his values were sound, unlike Jia She, a shameless rake.

As a father, he recognized Jia Baoyu’s extraordinary talent and potential, yet despised his daily dalliance among girls and neglect of studies.

He wished to discipline his son strictly, but was constantly thwarted by his mother and wife under various pretexts; bound by filial piety and ritual, he was a helpless father.

He most admired scholars, treated the virtuous with respect, aided the weak and rescued the desperate, and strongly supported Jia Yucun—an impoverished former jinshi who had lost his post—helping him regain high office, unaware he had nurtured an ungrateful wolf.

He had a heart to help others, but lacked the insight to judge character—a mediocre, rigid good man.

Later generations called him a defender of feudal rites; Jia Cong always sneered at such foolish, rigid reasoning.

Every era has its own standards; judging people of past ages by modern ideals is itself a ridiculous form of ideological coercion.

Today, Zhou Changyan said Prince Jiaoshun greatly admired Jia Cong’s calligraphy, calling him a rare genius of the art, even predicting that within a few years, the Jia family would produce a master calligrapher.

Sitting below Jia Zheng was a middle-aged scholar in a blue robe; upon seeing Jia Cong enter, he immediately turned and studied him with keen interest.

In his youth, Jia Zheng had aspired to pass the imperial examinations and bring glory to his lineage, but his natural talent limited him in scholarly pursuits.

Yet his passion for learning, his love for scholars, and his longing for official rank and prestige were etched into his bones.

Moreover, the Jia family matriarch’s deep dislike for this grandson caused Jia Cong to be almost entirely ignored within the household.

Later, his father Jia Daisan’s final memorial to the emperor granted him a fifth-rank assistant minister post in the Ministry of Public Works, sparing him the embarrassment of failing the exams.

In a household as grand as the Jias, Jia Cong’s shabby appearance stood out sharply, yet Jia Zheng noticed his eyes were warm and luminous, his bearing calm and composed, radiating an aura unusual for his age.

Moreover, Prince Jiaoshun had personally written a letter inviting Jia Cong to attend the Nanyan Literary Gathering on the fifteenth day of the first month, to serve as the gathering’s recorder.

Such an extraordinary event had truly occurred—within the Jia household, upon this obscure nephew of his.

Compared to other royal heirs who chased hawks and hunted horses, Prince Jiaoshun was a paragon of the imperial clan and a pillar of scholarly purity.

Now he saw this nephew dressed in an ill-fitting, worn robe, with mended cuffs, thin frame, and sunken cheeks.

In this great family, Jia Cong’s humble origins and the hostility and abuse from Jia She and his wife.

But when Jia Zheng learned the reason for Zhou Changyan’s visit, he was utterly stunned.

As a government official, he naturally knew Prince Jiaoshun, a member of the imperial clan renowned for his literary achievements and spotless reputation.

He silently blamed his elder brother: why hadn’t he kept his son’s appearance respectable? To outsiders, it would seem the Jia family mistreated its descendants.

His face also lacked healthy color, as if he rarely ate enough; Jia Zheng frowned at the sight.

Thus Jia Zheng’s impression of this nephew was faint—he had rarely seen Jia Cong since childhood.

Seeing Zhou Changyan’s piercing gaze and faint pity as he studied Jia Cong, Jia Zheng felt a pang of shame.

Recalling Zhou Changyan’s purpose and connecting it with what he saw, this half-grown boy had already moved him deeply.

Sometimes it seemed as if Jia Cong didn’t exist at all; when Jia family members spoke of their children to outsiders, they would unconsciously skip over him.

What most drew Jia Zheng’s affection was that Prince Jiaoshun, too, adored learning, excelled in painting and calligraphy, and was skilled in compiling and scholarship, gathering many talented scholars to work on editing ancient texts and records.

This was precisely the ideal scholar Jia Zheng had dreamed of—doing the scholarly work he longed for but lacked the ability to achieve.

Moreover, Prince Jiaoshun’s biennial Nanyan Literary Gathering was famed as the premier literary event of the Zhou dynasty; those invited were all eminent Confucian scholars and literary luminaries.

To compose a fine poem or verse at the Nanyan Gathering would spread one’s fame across the land within days—what a glorious, elegant triumph of literary talent.

Even being invited to attend the Nanyan Gathering once would have made Jia Zheng proud for life, yet his literary talent and reputation were too mediocre to ever receive such an invitation.

He longed to befriend men like Prince Jiaoshun, but his official rank was insignificant, his character unsuited to scheming, and his literary talent nearly nonexistent—too insignificant to enter the view of men like Prince Jiaoshun.

Furthermore, the Jia family had always been cautious about associating with the imperial clan, all of which kept Jia Zheng from ever meeting this foremost scholar of the realm, leaving him with lingering regret.

For a man of Prince Jiaoshun’s literary renown, Jia Zheng naturally trusted his judgment; if he so highly praised Jia Cong’s calligraphy, it must be true.

The very scholar he had dreamed of meeting in secret now came to his door with a personal letter inviting his obscure nephew—how had this nephew achieved such a shocking feat?

Jia Cong, reading Prince Jiaoshun’s letter, felt equally bewildered: he had never met Prince Jiaoshun; why would the prince suddenly invite him by letter?

Seeing his expression, Zhou Changyan understood his confusion and recounted the day he bought the couplets from Aunt Zhao’s household; only then did Jia Cong realize—the ten taels of silver had been meant for this.

Beside him, Jia Zheng listened, astonished and delighted—this was a legend from operas: a poor scholar of extraordinary talent, finally revealed, suddenly favored by a noble patron, turning misfortune into fortune.

That such a thing could happen in his own Jia household—how fortunate was the Jia clan to have drawn such literary brilliance! He flushed with excitement, wishing he could be the one in the story.

Yet Jia Cong was born into a noble household—he could hardly be called a poor scholar—yet when Jia Zheng looked again at Jia Cong’s appearance, he was unmistakably a pauper’s child.

Though Jia Cong did not know Prince Jiaoshun, being recognized was surely a good thing; since the prince had personally written to him in his royal capacity, Jia Cong must reply with proper etiquette.

Hearing Jia Cong would write a reply, Jia Zheng immediately ordered a maid to fetch fine paper and brushes from his study and instructed Jia Cong to write the reply in the hall.

Prince Jiaoshun’s discerning eye had so greatly praised Jia Cong’s calligraphy; Jia Zheng could hardly wait to see it for himself.

Zhou Changyan watched as Jia Cong picked up the brush: the once shabby boy suddenly radiated an extraordinary aura.

Like a mountain standing firm, like a pillar in the river’s flow—Zhou Changyan, a learned man, knew this was the spirit born when skill neared the Dao, arising naturally from total focus.

Such presence was common among masters who devoted their lives to a single art—but Jia Cong was merely a half-grown child; it was too incredible.

Yet recalling the peerless calligraphy he had seen, the saying “writing reveals the man” made it seem less strange.

Jia Cong lifted his brush and wrote swiftly: “I have long heard that Nanyan gathers the finest talents of the realm, a spectacle revered by scholars; I have long looked up to it with reverence. Now, honored by Your Highness’s gracious invitation, I am overwhelmed with honor…”

Zhou Changyan, upon seeing this calligraphy—clear, refined, elegant, ancient yet vigorous—recognized it as identical to the characters on the couplets he had bought, and inwardly marveled.

He thought: no wonder the prince had doubted—had he not seen it with his own eyes, who could believe such extraordinary calligraphy came from a child of tender years?

Beside him, Jia Zheng was also stunned by Jia Cong’s calligraphy; though he lacked Zhou Changyan’s expertise in painting and calligraphy, his appreciation was not shallow.

After half a lifetime of reading, he could still tell good from bad—such mature, polished, graceful script might be expected from a renowned scholar.

Yet now it was written by a ten-year-old boy—when had the Jia family produced such a literary prodigy? He felt a sudden surge of pride and deep satisfaction.

How could his elder brother produce such an outstanding son? If this were his own child, how wonderful it would be.

He thought of his own sons, Baoyu and Jia Huan—neither was worthy.

His eldest son, Jia Zhu, had passed the imperial exams by his early twenties and was his greatest pride—yet he died young.

Had that boy lived, he would not have been inferior to Jia Cong; the second branch had a scholarly seed—now… Jia Zheng’s heart sank again.

At that moment, a maid came to report: “Master, after the guest has been received, the old lady wishes to see Jia Cong in Rongqing Hall.”

Readers who have started reading, please click the latest chapter and browse when reading earlier ones—help this new book accumulate reader engagement; as a new author, every bit of support means the world—thank you so much!

(End of Chapter)